


Fightlock: Ultimate Surrender

by mycake



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Fight Club Fusion, BAMF John, Drug Use, Fight Sex, Fights, Johnlock Gift Exchange, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-10
Updated: 2014-08-10
Packaged: 2018-02-12 12:42:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 8,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2110329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mycake/pseuds/mycake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A gift for tumblr user fuckyeahfightlock </p><p>This warped tale is about John Watson's fight against himself as he struggles to maintain a firm grasp on reality in this Sherlock meets Fight Club AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It's funny how memories fade.

I struggle to remember my birthday parties, the names of my primary school teachers, or even my own mother's voice. Yet for some reason I remember my first fight; _vividly_.

It was a school yard brawl.

His name was Tyler and quite frankly, he was a little shit.

All he did was pick on me and pick on me until I couldn't stand it another moment. That day he was asking for it. He kept smiling at me as he kicked me under the table. Then he had the audacity to spit in my pudding and swirl it around with his grubby little finger.

I was the smallest in my class and an asthmatic; therefore, an easy target for Tyler Dunn who was nearly twice my size. He knew I couldn't snitch on him; no one wanted to be remembered as the third year tattletale. Which left only one option...

The wind rustled through my hair as I stood face to face with my opponent. I clenched my fists so tight my knuckles turned white. I wanted to kill him. I wanted to knock his teeth out, bash his head in, anything to wipe that smug grin off his face.

I stepped forward to throw the first punch. My fist flew through the air and missed by a mile. Tyler threw the second punch and missed as well.

It was as if we were both afraid of _actually_ hurting one another. All those years we had been brainwashed into believing that we should treat others how we wanted to be treated and that friends don’t hurt friends. But there comes a time in every boy’s life that he must stand up for himself and make an example of his tormentors.

When I finally did manage to land a punch on his shoulder, it was so weak it made him laugh.

"You hit like a girl!" he taunted.

I grabbed him by the shirt and quickly took the fight to the ground.

A large crowd gathered to watch us roll about and claw at each other.

Children started cheering my name. _My name!_ I couldn't believe it. I was certain nobody even knew my name going by the way they treated me. I was never invited over for tea or to anyone’s birthday party, and suddenly I was their hero.

It was then, when I was high on adrenaline and the praise from my fellow classmates, that I sunk my nails into Tyler's upper arms. His eyes went wide in fear as I began to drag my nails down his fat fleshy arms, leaving angry red streaks in their wake.

He had his mouth wide open but he made no sound.

The children stopped cheering.

I gritted my teeth and started foaming at the mouth. I growled at Tyler like a feral dog as I dug my nails in deeper still. I wanted to hear him scream.

When I finally let go I was quickly pulled to my feet by none other than my own mother.

I was convinced she was going to kill me.

I looked down at the blood on my fingernails and right before I burst into tears: I smiled.


	2. Chapter 2

I began to sober up at the worst imaginable time.

I had become a human punching bag, pinned to the corner of the ring.

Every blow sent my head spinning. I was nauseous and only half cognisant of my surroundings.

My opponent was twice my size. Navy I believe he was.

He unleashed a fury of blows to my ribs, jostling the contents of my stomach.

_Don't puke, don't puke,_ I kept reminding myself.

Right when I was about to spew chunks, Popeye delivered a solid uppercut to my chin and I was sent spinning. I was knocked out momentarily; quite possibly longer.

I woke up to Bill slapping my face.

"My head," I moaned.

I sat up and tried to gather my wits about me. Men were yelling and scrambling every which way.

"We gotta get out of here!" he shouted over the hubbub. "The cops-" he said just as the police started storming through the front doors. "Hurry!"

Bill dragged me to my feet and pulled me to the rear exit. I followed blindly, not knowing what awaited me on the other side.

We broke through the double doors and out into the night air and I sucked in a deep breath of London smog. Bill led me down a winding path, through the streets and narrow alleyways.

When we were a fair distance away from the raid, we stopped to settle down for the night.

"Looks as good a place as any," I remarked as I mopped the sweat from my brow; only when I pulled my hand away I realised it wasn't sweat at all.

"Fuck," I cursed, pressing my fingers to the blood laden gash above my brow.

"Stop fussing, I'll get it," Bill assured me.

"Great, last thing I need is a trip to the A&E."

Bill just rolled his eyes and set to work, patching me up yet again.

Bill Murray had saved my life far too many times to count. Before we were living on the streets, I was Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers and Bill was my trusted nurse.

We went through hell and back together.

But now it looked as if Bill was getting lodgings and I was still without. Part of me hoped his housing plans would fall through.

I couldn't afford London on my pension, especially when I drank half of it away every month. I would have asked to stay with Bill but it looked as if his girlfriend (or should I say fiancée) had already beaten me to the punch. I have always been under the impression that his fiancée is a manipulative coke whore. Needless to say, she isn't a big fan of me either.

There was no doubt in my mind Bill would be back on the streets within a month, if not a fortnight.


	3. Chapter 3

I awoke to a torrential downpour and quickly became soaked from head to toe. I sat up and felt like death. My head was stinging, my chest was aching, and worst of all I was frightened.

My panic consumed me and I became chilled to the bone.

I looked all over for Bill, but he was nowhere to be found

_He wouldn't leave me. Would he?_

I felt so alone in that moment.

I took refuge under the awning of a cafe.

At the time, I didn't know the decision would change the course of my life forever.

From the street I could hear someone playing music. I looked up to see the silhouette of a man in the window. It must have been four, five in the morning; yet he was hacking away at his violin as if it had somehow wronged him in the past.

The melancholy tune matched the weather’s mood most perfectly. It was as if his music was what brought on the bad weather in the first place.

Then, all at once, the music stopped.

At first I was disappointed. The mysterious musician did take my mind off the bitter cold.

But then, the front door opened and to my surprise a little old lady started calling out to me, "Come inside! Come inside! You'll catch your death out there!"

I felt a chill run up through my spine and it wasn't from the cold. It's the feeling one usually gets when their head is telling them "this is a bad idea" and yet one is compelled to do it anyhow.

I took a few tentative steps forward, out into the rain.

_What's the worst that can happen?_

My mind ran through a long list of things that might happen but I ignored each and every one of them as I approached the ominous black door of 221-B Baker Street.

"That's it," the elderly woman cooed as she took my coat.

I was shocked I had made it that far.

"How about a nice cuppa?"

Before I could respond, she toddled off to supposedly fix some tea.

The music resumed upstairs and my curiosity got the better of me.

I held on to the railing tightly and slowly ascended the stairway, step by step, drawn to the violin's song like a moth to the flame.

The door was wide open so without further hesitation, I took a step in.

"Ehem," I cleared my throat, to let my presence be known. The man continued to play, undeterred by my existence.

I took a seat on the sofa and started scanning the room. It was covered in dust and debris, oddities and lab equipment, taxidermy and all sorts of mismatched décor. It didn’t feel like the sort of place a normal human-being would take up residence.

Dracula, Frankenstein, and Dr Jekyll all crossed my mind. I was in the lair of a madman, I knew it; yet, odd as it may seem, I was irrevocably drawn to him.

I sat for quite some time, quiet as a mouse, until I began to wonder if he had forgotten all about me.

Then, just as I was about to ask why he had invited a complete stranger into his home, the elderly woman returned with a piping hot cup of tea, which I accepted gratefully.

After only a few sips, I felt a year's worth of restless nights catch up with me all at once and I was out like a light before I knew it.


	4. Chapter 4

I was abruptly awoken when my room became flooded with a blinding light. I let out a low groan and opened one eye, just a crack, to see the housekeeper pulling back the curtains, unleashing a whirlwind of dust.

I was positively delirious.

"Where am I?" I groaned.

"Breakfast is already on the table. I won't be having crumbs in the bed, young man."

This definitely wasn't the answer I was anticipating.

"Please, could you tell me where I am?"

She pressed her hand against the bandage on my forehead and I winced.

"Fighting," she said in a condescending tone. "You should know better! What would your mother say?"

I felt a knot form in my stomach.

"Your clothes are on the chair," she said, more softly, almost sounding fond. She shut the door gently and I listened the pattering of her footsteps as she returned downstairs.

I threw back the covers to find I was completely naked.

A panic rose in my chest.

_The tea!_

I knew I should have never trusted the kindness of strangers.

I hurried to get dressed; only to find my clothes were missing. In their place were a brand new pair of trousers, ones I couldn't possibly afford on my own, but nevertheless, were just my size. Along with them was a freshly pressed crimson shirt; again, just my size.

My head ached, trying to think of a way out of this situation. I pulled open the dresser drawer and started digging through another man's socks and underwear which were indexed by colour and quite possibly occasion as well.

I grabbed the least gaudy pair I could find that looked relatively unworn and pledged to return them to their owner after I was done with them.

They were a bit more snug than I'm used to, but beggars can't be choosers.

I was in such a hurry to leave I nearly bowled over my host who was waiting for me at the door.

"Oh, God, I am so sorry," I apologised, as a steady stream of blood started dripping out of his nose.

"No, no, I bleed easily," he insisted.

"Here, let me get you something," I said, rushing into the bathroom for a towel. I wet it in the sink and stepped out to hand it to him but by then the bleeding had stopped.

He insisted he was fine but I, in turn, insisted I at least clean the blood from his face.

"I'm so sorry, I didn't know you were there."

"Stop your groveling; I told you I was fine," he sneered.

"I'm sorry, I really best be going."

"What's the rush?" he asked. "There isn't a fight for hours."

"What?" I asked, taken aback.

"Your ears have the peculiar thickening and flattening of a boxer."

I couldn't help but feel my ears. They weren’t really so misshapen, were they?

"I'm a fighter myself; a much better one than you, I can assure you."

I should have been offended, but his tone suggested he truly didn't believe that what he was saying was offensive.

"It's more of a hobby," I admitted.

"Oh, you love it. The thrill of the fight, the blood pumping through your veins. Even now you are itching to return to the ring," he grinned.

I wouldn't say it out loud, but he was right. In that moment I was thirsty for blood. Something had triggered my desire to destroy something beautiful.

"Punch me," he said to my surprise. "Punch me in the face."

"What? What for?"

Before I could register what had happened I felt his knuckles graze my cheek.

My response was automatic: I hit him so hard, it left my hand aching. It was like punching a brick wall.

And yet, I desperately wanted to do it again; so I did.

He was almost eager to take every blow. It was as if he was actually enjoying it.

Then he started laughing. I was strangely reminded of my first fight with Tyler. His laughter unleashed something inside me I had kept hidden for so long.

I tackled him to the ground and put him in a head-lock, crushing his wind-pipe with my bicep.

"I knew it," he choked. I let go and he gasped for air.

"You knew what?" I asked, shoving him away roughly.

"You've been holding back, all this time."

I grabbed ahold of him once more. He began to fight back, elbowing me in the nose and ribs, yet I remained undeterred. I wanted to watch him bleed.

I held him down by his hair and started hitting him relentlessly. His cheek bones were so sharp I could have cut myself on them. His posh demeanour made me only want to hit him harder.

When my knuckles weren't enough, I dug my nails into his arms, only to have him let out a pained scream.

I startled and let go immediately.

"I'm so sorry, I don't know what came over me."

We both sat up on the floor and he started to access the damage I had done to his arms.

"Who taught you to fight?" he asked with a hiss as he lightly pressed his fingertips to the scrape on his arm. His face was a battered mess of bruises, but one small scratch was too much for him.

"No one in particular," I responded, suddenly feeling winded by the whole affair.

"I could have guessed as much," he sighed.

He rose to his feet and brushed off the front of his trousers before giving me a hand up.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" he asked.

"Wh-well... Afghanistan," I replied in astonishment.

"It's not often a boxer takes the fight straight to the ground. You have been trained in hand-to-hand combat in the past, but you are right, your skills are abhorred."

"When did I ever say-"

"There's a spare bedroom upstairs, I suppose you don't mind my experimenting down here," he said, motioning to the jar of maggots sitting on the mantle. "I play the violin when I'm thinking, sometimes you won't see me for days on end. Potential flat mates should know the worst each other," he grinned. "What are your short comings... apart from the obvious," he chuckled, making mention of my short stature.

I glared up at him, "What makes you believe I would want to stay here?"

"I don't believe you fancy the alternative."

"How do you know I wouldn't rather take my chances on the street?"

He shrugged and disregarded me entirely as he took up his violin once more.

While I ate my cold breakfast, he played a jovial tune on his instrument. I was completely oblivious to why he was in such high spirits.

There was no guarantee I was staying. I went wherever the east wind took me. And yet he continued to celebrate his personal triumph as if our agreement was set in stone.

"I don't even know your name," I said, after remaining silent for far too long.

"Sherlock Holmes."

"That sounds made up," I laughed.

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes, if you wanted the whole of it."

"Ridiculous," I muttered.

"Let me teach you," he said, placing his violin on his chair.

"Teach me what?" I asked, swallowing nervously.

"To fight, of course."

"What for?"

"You'll see," he said with a wicked smile.


	5. Chapter 5

And then, something happened. I let go. Lost in oblivion. Dark and silent and complete. I found freedom. 

Those first few nights were nothing short of magical. A drunken blur of flying fists, blood splattered clothing, and stacks and stacks of cold hard cash.

To the bystander, we looked absolutely mad; smiling through blood stained teeth, laughing our heads off as we took a beating.

I have to admit, Sherlock was good. Real quick too. He could dodge a punch unlike any other. Only, he liked to give his opponent a few easy hits. He said it softens them up a bit; makes them cocky.

While they're reeling in their assured victory: he gives them a left hook out of nowhere, followed by a swift kick to the ribs.

It was brilliant.

He was brilliant.

I found, I didn't have to drink nearly as much to have a good time and with Sherlock's words of wisdom echoing in my mind, I started actually winning.

I used to see my opponent, but rarely did I ever _observe_ them. Sometimes we'd spend hours, scoping people out, looking for a good fight.

"That one," I would point out.

"Scrapper. No real form. Five minutes."

"The tall one."

"Scoliosis. Kick the thoracic vertebrae, he falls, bent at the knee, tearing his PCL; thus marking the end of his fighting career."

"Shall we?"

I made 500 quid on that fight alone.

Sherlock wasted no time, he delivered a roundhouse kick right to his opponent's spine and the man came down real hard on his right knee, causing him to shout in agony, thus ending the match.

The crowd was outraged. It was supposed to be a sure fire bet. They blamed the Golem for throwing the fight.

We returned to the flat in high spirits, laughing and chatting away.

"Sherlock, is that you?"

Sherlock let out a light hearted groan and rolled his eyes.

"Deal with her, would you?" he begged. "I can't handle another long winded lecture about the state of my clothes."

"And I can?"

"You're a saint," he said, as retreated upstairs.

"Blood!" Mrs Hudson exclaimed. "On my floors!"

"Don't worry, it isn't mine," I replied: which looking back on it wasn't the most comforting thing to say to the poor woman.

"You're back early," she remarked, as she grabbed the mop and bucket from the broom cupboard.

"I won," I said, swelling with pride. "Do you always keep a bucket of water handy?"

"I'd be a fool not to," she sighed. "I can't keep up with you dragging God knows what into the place."

"I'll try to be more careful next time." I pulled out my winnings and handed them to her. "Here, for your trouble. Consider it part of next month's rent."

"And the wall?"

I groaned inwardly, "I'll have someone look into it."

"Putting bloody holes in my wall," she mumbled.

"I'll fix it myself," I said, placing my hand on the banister.

"I'll believe it when I see it."

"We both know the moment it's fixed another hole will take its place."

"Oh," the mother hen clucked as she fussed with the entry way. I kept slowly creeping up the stairs, hoping to go unnoticed.

"Don't think for one second you're off the hook, young man!"

"I'll pay you double next month!" I shouted from the top of the stairs.

"You'll do no such thing!"

I slammed the door behind me and let out a loud groan.

"What does she want from me?"

Sherlock looked up from his latest experiment which involved mutilating half-dead toads.

"Damn it," he cursed, as he flipped the battery off and on.

"What?"

"It croaked."

I snorted a laugh. "What on Earth are you doing to the poor thing?"

"You couldn't possibly understand."

"I'm a doctor."

"You _were_ a doctor," he sneered.

I felt compelled to make him eat his words. I was ready to shove him up against the wall and bloody my fist with his face, but he interrupted my thoughts.

"Is Mrs Hudson still on about the holes in the wall?"

"I told her it was pointless."

"I say it adds character,” he shrugged as he continued to fiddle with the electrical wires.

"She's going to evict us if we keep it up."

"She'd never. Besides she owes me. A few years back her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida; I was able to help out."

"You stopped her husband from being executed?"

"Oh, no, I ensured it."

I laughed at the madman and we shared another few beers and a story or two before bed.

That night I was too beat to stumble up the stairs, so I wound up on the sofa.

At six in the morning Mrs Hudson exacted her revenge with some early morning Hoovering which I responded to like a terrified house-cat. I scampered upstairs, cradling my head in my hands, and nursed my hang-over for the better half of the afternoon.

 


	6. Chapter 6

Round about four I awoke from my deep slumber, feeling un-rested. My jaw was sore and slightly swollen. I couldn’t remember if I had taken a hit to the face the night prior. In fact, I couldn’t remember much of anything.

My ribs were aching more than usual so I took it easy climbing down the stairs.

Just as I reached the sitting room, one of Sherlock's clients came traipsing up the stairs with a worried look on her face.

"Come in," I said, opening the door for her.

Sherlock stood by the window with his violin resting on his chin. I could tell he was deep in thought going by his sombre tune.

"Have a seat," I told his client, as I pulled up a chair for her.

She was quite young, scarcely older than 20, with long brown hair that was curled in loose tendrils that just barely grazed her shoulders.

"Start from the beginning," I said, producing a pen from the side table.

"It's my father," she said with a solemn tone. "He's vanished."

"Vanished?" I inquired.

"Or has it been made to look like he has vanished?" Sherlock added. "My apologies, but we don't deal with elaborate corporate cover stories."

"We?" she said giving me a quizzical look.

"I'm Sherlock's associate."

"Partner," he corrected.

"Oh," she said with a blush.

"It's not like that," I insisted.

"Well, thank you for your time," she mumbled as she rose from her seat. She walked all the way to the door before turning, "But how could you possibly know my father was-"

"The head of a multi-national drug corporation? The emblem on your keyring told all," he smirked. "Once the news of your father's multi-billion dollar mistake goes public, he had better be well hidden."

"Won't you reconsider?" she pleaded.

"I fight for the innocent; the hundreds of people who were affected by your father's negligence."

In the blink of an eye, the young woman's attitude changed entirely, and instead of bargaining she had a few choice words for Sherlock and I. After which she slammed the door; rattling the very bones of the foundation.

"I don't believe she'll be returning any time soon," I remarked.

"Good riddance."

"So far you've taken three cases, all without pay and denied... Ten? Twenty clients?"

"26," he said cheerfully.

"Any fights on?"

"About £750 worth."

"Should get us through until next Tuesday. Unless another case comes along in the next half hour."

"It's raining."

"Yes," I concurred.

Sherlock tapped on the barometer on the desk and hummed.

"Should we ready ourselves for this evening?" I asked.

"Sure, fine," he said disinterestedly.

"Any tips?"

"Don't get KO'd and I'm sure we'll be fine," he said with a forced grin.

"What's wrong?"

He continued to fiddle with the barometer.

"I can't make it out tonight," he sighed.

"Oh," I said, surprised. "It's, just, we usually go together..."

"I've already sent you tonight's venue on your phone. Use my name to get in."

"Do you mind me asking-"

"Yes," he said plainly.

And with that, he left.

He swept out of room, stopping only to grab his coat from the hook.

I felt a chill run up my spine and watched as the barometer's needle fell.


	7. Chapter 7

The room spun about me so quickly I couldn't get firm grasp on reality. I closed my eyes and still felt it tilting and turning. My feet threatened to give out from under me.

Oh, how easy it would have been to feign unconsciousness. Yet I grappled with coherence for dear life.

I felt my own blood dribble off my chin and down my neck.

Where was Sherlock? Why hadn't he come?

My opponent delivered another harsh blow to my left ear and I cried out in agony.

"Sherlock!"

My world went black, but somehow I knew I was still standing. I could feel myself transcending time and space, but I felt as if had no control over my body.

It was an ethereal experience.

And then, all at once, it was over.

I was back at Baker Street with an ID bracelet from the hospital still affixed to my right wrist.

"Mrs Hudson," I coughed in a hoarse whisper.

I couldn't make out what she was saying at first. Her voice was shaking, as were her hands.

I comforted her the best I could, but she was beyond inconsolable.

When she finally managed to calm down I sent her to make tea to ease her nerves.

I checked my pockets to find my mobile's screen was cracked like a spider's web. I tried turning it on and the screen flickered on only momentarily. I placed it on the side table, along with a handful of money and some ticket stubs for the Chinese circus.

I scrubbed at my face with my hands and tried sitting up.

I was surprised to find nothing hurt; not even my normal aches and pains. I assessed myself for damages and sat myself on the edge of the bed. There were no bandages, open wounds, or fresh bruises. I wasn't sure whose shirt I was wearing but it was in good nick and hardly worn.

I struggled to remember where I had got it from and the events leading up to that moment. It almost felt like a dream, in a way.

Mrs Hudson returned with the tea.

"What day is it?" I had to ask.

"Tuesday."

"Tuesday?"

"The fifth."

"Impossible," I claimed. "It can't be," I laughed nervously. "Yesterday... The fight, that was on the sixth, the tickets say-"

My face dropped as I read the date on the ticket stub.

"This isn't right."

Mrs Hudson held up the ticket to look for herself.

"2010?" she asked. "I'm afraid these are no good."

"That means nothing," I said, dismissively. I looked at my bracelet for further clues. "Sherlock," I sighed. "They put the wrong name on my bracelet."

"Sherlock," Mrs Hudson repeated.

I felt my stomach plummet.

The fondness in her voice seemed all too familiar.

I looked at my hands. It seemed the thing to do.

I narrowed my gaze on every feature.

They were indeed my hands.

Then why did everything feel so terribly wrong?


	8. Chapter 8

I stared at my reflection for hours, to the point Mrs Hudson had to drag me away from the mirror.

"But I am Captain John Watson, right?" I asked with an air of uncertainty. "My face, it hasn't changed."

Mrs Hudson placed a blanket over my shoulders and patted my head.

"I fought under his name, but you know it's me. Mrs Hudson?"

"Why don't you get some rest," she said softly.

"Look!" I said, pointing to the door. "His coat is gone from its hook! He's still out there."

Mrs Hudson just sighed.

"We look nothing alike! I don't understand the mix-up here."

"Perhaps I should call your brother? To clear things up?"

"Yes, yes, that's a good idea. He'll tell you: I can't possibly be Sherlock."

I looked my hands over once more.

If only Sherlock was there, he could have easily cleared my name, but my own brother was the next best thing. He'd quickly see through any games they were trying to pull.

Shortly after Mrs Hudson placed the call, there came a knock at the door. I peeled back the curtains just enough to peer outside. I looked down at the car parked outside and didn't recognise the driver waiting inside.

"Don't answer that," I bade. "I won't be taken anywhere; especially not by one of Mycroft's men."

"He just wants to help."

"No, no. Last time he 'just' helped... No, tell him to go away." I brought my feet up into my chair and nervously bit at my thumb. "I am Sherlock. It was just a case of identity… A crisis I suppose. I'm fine now."

I heard heavy footfalls on the staircase.

"Don't let them take me," I pleaded. "Just wait. Wait until I can get this mess sorted."

Mrs Hudson looked at me sorrowfully.

"I'm sorry," she said as she grabbed the door handle. "Mr Holmes is not in," she told the man at the top of the stairs as she slid outside, closing the door behind herself.

I took the opportunity to flee, out the bedroom window, down the fire escape, and onto the street.

I began retracing my steps, starting with the Chinese circus.

I broke into the abandoned building and started scouring the theatre for clues. I opened the dressing room door to find an empty mattress and used syringes scattered on the floor.

I crouched down and carefully examined a discarded medicine vial.

"Cocaine hydrochloride, 7%."

On the back were the initials "JHW" along with a date "30/08/14"

I carefully placed the vial in my coat pocket for safe keeping, while I searched the rest of the room.

"Angelo's!" I exclaimed, finding a styrofoam container with Angelo's distinct pattern of puncture marks on the lid.

The next logical place to look for Sherlock was at Angelo's. Perhaps he was in hiding.

_God knows why._

When I reached Angelo's he had mixed answers for me.

"I just need to know where Sherlock is," I told him.

"Is this... Is this some sort of test?"

"What? No? Why would I be testing you? Just tell me where he is."

His eyes shifted back and forth in a panic and his brow became soaked in sweat.

I was about to threaten him with bodily harm when I spotted none other than Bill Murray.

"No way," I remarked. "Bill! Bill!" I called out. He refused to make eye contact with me, though he did glance in my direction when I called him name.

I approached him from across the restaurant and he began to cower.

"Bill, what happened-"

That's when I noticed the side of his face.

"What happened to you?" I asked trying to get a better look at his eye which was blood red. The right half of his face was painted in dark bruises and looked painfully swollen. "Here, let me have a look. Have you been in to see a doctor?"

Bill gave a nervous glance to Angelo.

"Who did this to you?" I asked, feeling my blood start to boil.

"It was one hell of a fight," Angelo laughed nervously. "Would you like something to eat? Anything at all, free of charge."

"I did this," I said in revelation. "Bill..." I tried to jog my memory. "Not Bill Murray, Bill Wiggins. The army nurse..." I scratched my head and tried to focus on the man in front of me. "You've never been in combat... I did this to you?"

I admired my handy work.

"Still engaged?"

"Back out on the street," he replied, his tensions seeming to ease.

"Yes... Drugs?"

"Not on me," he said, checking his pockets. "If you want, I could come round later."

"No need," I said, looking him over. "I'm looking for a Dr John Watson," I said calmly; yet the two men jumped in response. "I see," I lied.

I turned away and pushed open the door.

"By the way," I said with a wry smirk. "You both failed the test."


	9. Chapter 9

I returned to Baker Street with little to go off of other than a half empty bottle of cocaine, the words a nervous Spaniard, and an outdated ticket stub.

I looked to the vial first.

It was obviously nicked from a hospital; they often use cocaine in sinus surgeries.

The initials, matched my own, but must have belonged to another medical professional. I failed to recognise the handwriting. From what I could tell, whoever wrote it had a steady hand and firm grip.

The date suggested the vial was first punctured on the 2nd; likely by the same man that wrote his initials on the vial.

I could still smell faint traces of alcohol on the vial's rubber stopper, which meant not only had it been recently used (within the last 24 hours) but whoever had used it had the common sense to use aseptic technique.

The puncture was made by a 21 gauge needle, which meant it was likely 5mL syringe.

I filtered out the unnecessary or misleading information and narrowed it down to Bart's, a teaching hospital, not far from Baker Street.

It seemed as good a place as any to make some inquiries: starting with the strange disappearance of Sherlock Holmes.

An old friend of mine Mike Stamford was a teacher there and there wasn't a shadow of a doubt in my mind that Sherlock hadn’t gotten to him first.

We met up for coffee in Hyde Park, and while I tried to act as normal as humanly possible, he remained suspicious of my intentions.

When I pulled the vial out of my pocket, his face turned a shade of ghost white.

"Put that away,” he said, covering it up with his hand.

“J.H.W. you know who it is,” I said, clasping his hand firmly, holding in place.

“Of course I know who it is!” he said, gritting his teeth. “I just cannot believe you would try and return it.”

I pulled away and looked at him, mouth agape.

Mike looked around cautiously.

“I understand you wanting to meet in a public place, but… I don’t know what you want. I can’t possibly let you back in the lab. Not after what happened.”

“Could you be any more vague?”

I saw the faint glimmer of a smirk cross Mike’s lips.

“I can’t help you,” he assured me.

“I’m just looking for whomever these initials belong to.”

Mike furrowed his brows in confusion.

“They belong to you.”


	10. Chapter 10

“Old habits die hard.”

“Shut up, Mycroft,” I said, nudging him aside as I climbed the stairs.

“You can’t possibly run from your problems. I’m sure you know that. Though I don’t believe you’ll ever _acknowledge_ it.”

I continued to ignore him as I opened the door to the flat.

I took in a deep breath, trying to take in Sherlock’s scent like a blood hound.

“You’ll never find him,” he gloated.

I reached behind me and just barely grazed Mycroft’s suit jacket before he recoiled in horror.

“What are you doing?” he asked, thoroughly disgusted by the physical contact.

I looked at him through the corner of my eye.

“Proving to myself that I’m lucid,” I said with a sigh as I took my seat.

Mycroft gave me a look.

“You’re in his chair,” he said snidely.

I ran my hands over the fabric, several times, as I stared at the black leather chair across the room.

“No, I refuse,” I said. “Nothing here is mine. It cannot be.”

“You’re losing touch with reality, brother dear.”

“These are my hands,” I said firmly. “There is a Sherlock Holmes, I know he’s real.”

“John Watson… John Watson, wasn’t that the one that got away?” Mycroft asked with a smirk. “If I recall-“

I put an end to Mycroft’s recollection when my fist met his thigh, giving him a dead leg.

He fell forward, cursing Sherlock’s name.

“Unwise,” he said through clenched teeth. “First Jim, now John, you really can’t let go, can you?”

I ran my hands through my hair and held back my tears.

“Go,” I told him as my lower lip began to quiver.

Mycroft ran his hand along the dents in the wall and noted the blood stains on the fireplace.

“Go to him,” he said with a grave tone. “You have his address.”

I ran my fingers over my lips in thought.

“Leave me alone.”

“Sherlock.”

“I said, leave me alone!”


	11. Chapter 11

I didn’t know whether to knock or ring the bell, so I stood at the doorstep, dumbfounded.

I could hear voices inside the house, a man and a woman, speaking in hushed whispers, with the occasional high pitched whine of a small infant.

I felt a lump form in my throat as I raised my hand to gently rap on the door.

“Just a minute!” I heard a voice call out.

The door opened all too soon and I came face to face with…

_Myself._

“John?” Mary asked.

I shook my head clear. “I… I thought I heard a knock.”

She placed a hand on my shoulder and looked outside.

I looked to the infant cradled in her arms.

“I don’t understand,” I said, blinking rapidly.

Mary chuckled, “And that surprises me?”

“No, I was just…” I lifted on to my toes and planted my heels on the ground once more. “Have you ever had an out of body experience?”

Mary just shrugged in response. “I suppose everyone has.”

“It’s just…” I looked down at my hands. “Still my own,” I remarked.

“What?” Mary asked, now half-way across the room.

“Nothing,” I said, closing the door.

No sooner than I had heard the door click shut, there came a knock, followed by a ringing of the bell.

“Tell me you heard that,” I said, feeling chilled to the bone.

Mary gave me a blank look.

I turned and opened the door slowly.

“Sherlock,” I said with a dumb look on my face.

Sherlock barged right in, pushing me aside.

“I… I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I was just… were you,” he pointed to me.

“Did we?” I pointed to him.

“Alright, this is getting a bit weird,” Mary said, placing the baby back in her swing. “John just answered the door, not two seconds ago.”

“I need your help,” he said, handing me my coat.

“Don’t wait up,” I told Mary as we left together.

The moment we were outside, alone together, I grabbed Sherlock’s arm as tight as I could.

“What the _hell_ is going on?” I asked, on the verge of tears.

“I may have spiked your tea, a week back.”

“You what!?”

“Or it might have been my own, I really don’t know. Listen, I don’t really know if I’m you or myself right now. And I think we started an underground fighting ring. All I know is I have half a million pounds under my bed and I’m frightened.”

“What if we’re the same person?” I asked him.

We simultaneously started grabbing at each other; pulling at each other’s clothing.

“You feel so real,” I told him, grabbing fistfuls of his Belstaff coat.

“So do you.”

“OK, I’m pretty sure we’re two people.”

Sherlock nodded. I noticed he was breathing heavily and nervously scrubbing at his lips.

“I was on the street with Bill… Wiggins, the one you took on as an apprentice, only I thought he was Bill Murray,” I told him. “Then it started raining and I found Mrs Hudson, only she thought I was you. She told me to come inside and that’s when I saw you, you were playing the violin, and then she gave me the tea.”

“No I gave you the tea, remember?”

“No?”

“A week ago,” he said with an annoyed sigh. “You were having a nervous breakdown so I gave you some chamomile tea, only it wasn’t just chamomile in the tea. I had misplaced a bad batch of lysergic acid diethylamide somewhere in the kitchen.”

“You mean to say I’ve been tripping on _acid_ , this whole time?”

“I believe we both have… among some other things…”

“And Mrs Hudson?”

“I’m fairly sure she’s just been on the ‘herbal soothers’.”

“But Mycroft…” I said.

“That was me,” he said, grabbing me by the shoulders. “Don’t you see?”

“No, not at all… in fact… I’m the most confused I’ve ever been. Did we really make half a million pounds?” I asked.

“You drugged my husband? Again?”

We both turned to see Mary standing in the doorway.

“One week, I leave you two alone for one week,” she said in shock. “And what’s this about you being out on the street? I can’t trust you two for two seconds. Get inside.”

“Yes, dear,” we responded simultaneously.


	12. Chapter 12

John and I sat down with a pad and paper and worked out every last detail, until we were certain that what we had experienced was our own experience and not our subconscious projecting the other’s experience as their own.

Needless to say, we’re still working out the details.

The night we both drank the poison, John went in search of a fight (which he lost) and afterwards, ran into William Wiggins, who lead him back to Baker Street.

I had wandered out in the rain to find John asleep on the street. I joined him in his slumber, only to awake in the freezing rain.

Mrs Hudson was worried when John returned home without me early in the morning, so she went searching for me and found me under the awning.

When I arrived inside, John was playing my violin, and rather poorly too, might I add.

Mrs Hudson brought me tea, which I took to bed with me. Meanwhile, John shed himself of his clothing and started rearranging the flat. He eventually became tired and decided to crawl into bed with me.

Mrs Hudson walked in on us, which gave her a fright.

I told her to leave John be and make me breakfast, to which she responded, “Breakfast is already on the table. I won't be having crumbs in the bed, young man.”

John started asking where he was and then she noticed the bandage on John’s forehead. She made some remark about my mother and after she left, John and I got into a fist fight. After which we decided to start an underground fighting club.

We recruited a few members of the homeless network to watch us fight outside of Angelo’s and before long, a crowd had gathered and wanted to join in. Bets were placed and soon John and I were up several thousand pounds in earnings.

We continued sleeping together and carrying on as normal; it was only when I read the barometer that started to notice things were amiss. I knew I could no longer trust my own eyes when I saw the barometer’s needle turn in the wrong direction after the rain had started.

All the while we had been drinking the poisoned tea!

Only, my heavily drugged mind couldn’t put two and two together.

John and I went on a frankly ridiculous adventure trying to find out where we had both gone. He had his first taste of cocaine, which we had stolen from Bart’s, and it only seemed to make matters worse.

We both arrived at Angelo’s and I started asking where “Sherlock” was, prompting Angelo to question our intentions.

After which, John went in search of Mike Stamford who was appalled that he of all people was the one who stole the medical grade cocaine from the hospital’s control cabinet.

When John returned to Baker Street I donned the persona of Mycroft, which really sent him spinning; which brings us to now.

I returned John to his home and waited outside for the better part of a half hour. After which point I couldn’t stand it any longer and had to come to him with my revelation, which came to me while I was standing on his doorstep.

“So what I thought was happening to me, was actually happening to you,” I elaborated.

“But only when we were in the same room together. Otherwise my memory is still intact?”

“Mostly,” I added.

“Mostly?” he inquired.

“There were definitely times when neither of us were ourselves.”

“If you ever drug me again, I will seriously kill you,” he threatened. “Do you understand?” John started scrubbing his face with his hands. “Just one last thing,” he said with a heavy sigh. “Did we…”

“Did we what?”

“You know,” he said, looking towards his wife. He shrugged his shoulders and repeated himself, “You know?”

We held each other’s gaze for an uncomfortably long time.

“Trust me, everything is going to be fine.”

“Thank you,” he replied.

John reached out and grabbed a hold of my hand, giving it a good squeeze.

“That was the strangest time of my life.”


	13. Epilogue

After our strange ethereal trip, Mary no longer trusted us to be alone together for more than an afternoon. All as well, it was plenty of time to get done what we needed to get done.

“Not the face!” I would remind Sherlock constantly.

“Come on, what fun is it then?”

“You don’t want Mary finding out.”

“She knows!”

“Not to the extent you think she does,” I said, raising my hands to protect my face, leaving my sides exposed.

Sherlock could not for the life of him, stop smiling.

“You’re enjoying this,” I remarked.

“Not to the extent you think I do,” he giggled.

“You know where this is heading?” I jeered.

“I have you right where I want you,” he said, giving me a shove, causing me to fall back on to the bed.

“No bite marks,” I teased as he climbed on top of me. “She’ll certainly notice then.”

He just hummed a happy little response as he nibbled at my ear lobe.

I pulled away, laughing.

“What are you doing?"

  
“It’s romantic,” he explained, trying to pull my ear back into his mouth.

“Is not!”

“You wouldn’t know what romance was if it bit you in the-“

“I’ll have you know, I can be very romantic,” I said, wrapping my legs around his torso. “I’d rather box your ears in though.”

“What for?”

“Mary would kill me if I tried it on her.”

Sherlock pinned my shoulders to the bed and I squeezed his rib-cage with my thighs. Just as he leaned forward I gave delivered a harsh slap across his face.

He grabbed me by my wrists and held me so tight, my skin began to burn.

“Oh, you are going to get it,” he laughed manically.

Rough wasn’t the word for it. We were downright brutal at times, but we needed it; _we craved it._

Mary knew we fought; she didn’t know about the fucking.

_To the victor goes the spoils._

And that night, it looked as if Sherlock was getting his.

He was positively manic, tearing my clothes away. It needed done quick, which wasn’t an issue for Sherlock.

Mary could be back any moment, which excited Sherlock even further.

“I want her to see us,” he growled as he tore my pants off.

“She’s shot you before,” I reminded him.

He just moaned. “I want the world to see us.”

The very thought of being on exhibition did wonders to him.

“We’ll have at it in the car next time.”

“God, yes,” he groaned, grinding his hips against me.

I felt my blood pool in my gut and just as he was about to slide it in, I bit him hard on the forearm.

In his surprise, he let go of me, and I tackled him to the ground, pinning his arms above his head.

“Suck it,” was all I had to say and I was half-way down his throat. For the next five minutes, his face was my pleasure toy. I used him hard and fast, abusing his throat. He coughed and sputtered, which only turned me on more.

Then, suddenly and all at once, I buried myself to the hilt and felt myself erupt down the back of his throat.

I pulled out slowly, revelling in his red face and bulging veins.

He coughed and desperately gasped for air.

A tear formed in the corner of his eye and gently rolled down his cheek.

And I smiled.


End file.
